I don’t know where to start. The long lonely night or the chimes stirred by the warm, shifted wind? The redacted blessings or the slow curve of sky? The days bled and the years fleeting, the burden of being a beaten drum, all cost and no value. Dreams lost to the quiet and the cacophony, dreams lost to the myth of sleep. This ridiculous reporting of everything I do not know.
Things slip away. People come and people go. The perfect phrase dissolves in the transit between thought and tongue, loosing a rabble of words like hungry gulls upon your breath. The world is all flash-bangs and calliope, all fun house mirror and carousel, screeching tires and the gutter clatter of brass. Stern warnings from the strata of idiots and flimflammers we pay to make fools of us, we spend our best intentions on the wind. Sleepwalkers repeating the safety warnings as they march straight off the cliff.
I don’t know how to stop. Free verse and aged out rage. A mantra made from every sleight or misgiving, a magnet made from the iron in my blood. That old saw about how apostates attract, endings to attend to and sorrows to incarnate. An adept of the true confusion, I fuse hues and bend the depths of this shallow resonance. Less than the sum of my parts, more than the words can manage.
No comments:
Post a Comment